


Letting Go

by badjujuboo (miztrezboo)



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst and Humor, Fluff, Heartbreak, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-16
Updated: 2012-11-16
Packaged: 2017-11-18 19:18:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/564381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miztrezboo/pseuds/badjujuboo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>the one where they break up and make up. a lot. until they don’t</p><p> </p><p>uni!au, five times verse thing</p>
            </blockquote>





	Letting Go

**Author's Note:**

> huge love to my **mrsyt31** who always makes me write things and **coolbreeeze** for being her awesome self and the Sponge Zayn to my Patrick/Liam - **shrdmdnssftw** for giving me fic for fic (best deal ever really).

**Letting Go**

 

 **: 1 :**  
The first time they break up, it’s not really a break-up as such, more just an extended period of silence that turns into this huge _thing_ involving Liam moping and Louis wanting to bash their heads together.

“It’s been a week, Louis. A week.” Liam pouts and hates that he’s pouting because he’s never been one to get like _this_ over anyone. Let alone a mate to snog at parties with when everyone else was hooking up and they’d both somehow not managed to find anyone of interest. Because that’s all they were, wasn’t it? Mates who snogged a little and maybe a few times rubbed one out against each other’s thighs in the heat of the moment. It didn’t really _mean_ anything, did it?

“Of course it _meant_ something, you twat!” Louis says, flicking Liam on the tip of his ear and oh, he must have been talking out loud again. Vodka always does that. Makes him chatty.

“And handsy,” Louis says, pulling Liam’s hand away from where it was creeping up Louis’ thigh and that was _only_ because Louis had those ridiculous red corduroy trousers on again. Liam didn’t think of Louis like _that_. 

“Thanks,” Louis says with a little huff, and suddenly the warmth at Liam’s side is gone because Louis has got up, picking up the near empty bottle of vodka and walking toward the kitchen with much more precision than he should, given how much they’d drunk.

“Lou—” Liam starts, but he stops because, well, this _is_ Louis and they did have a thing when they were both freshers, but they’re in their final year now and Louis is sort of dating Harry’s best friend (could you call dating when you’re perpetually being snippy at each other which results in a _lot_ of angry sex, most of it public?), and yeah, this break-up _thing_ could get awkward.

Liam runs a hand over his face and sort of leaves it there, listening to Louis do whatever it is he thinks is actually helping tidy up before the morning and waiting for Louis to return. A few minutes later he hears the sound of the dishwasher being turned on (which could be worrisome really, Louis and soap and the dishwasher don’t really go together), the tap switching on and off fades, there’s a cool pressure to the side of his face, and he opens his eyes to a pint glass of water. He thanks Lou softly and pulls himself up straight, drinking half of it down because he _knows_ in the morning he is going to feel the amount of vodka he drank on an empty stomach. Louis sits down beside him again, ruffling his hair and managing to get away with it before Liam’s second-rate reflexes can slap him away. 

“You like Harry, right?”

Liam nods slowly, because he does. He liked Harry the first time they met in Psychology—the only class they’d had together in first year. Liam might have been with Louis but he appreciated Harry as a mate who also was sort of ridiculously good-looking. He liked Harry when Lou and Liam fizzled out halfway through second year and Harry had just started taking Liam to pubs and parties. Yeah, they’d been leaving together more than with other people lately, but that was just because Liam didn’t like anyone else and Harry didn’t _do_ long term (or so Liam thought), but if Louis was right, then . . . then . . . .

Maybe they _were_ together?

“You like him enough to snog at every event we’ve all been to and at every club close to campus, and do I recall a weekend you both buggered off to Wolverhampton and you took Harry to meet your parents?” Louis says, patting at Liam’s wrist so he’ll drink more water. Liam drains the glass and Louis takes it from him, resting it on the coffee table before sitting side-on, one leg bent under him as he looks at Liam. 

“It wasn’t to meet my parents! They just had a spare room and, well, I couldn’t let Harry sleep on the sofa, that would just be rude,” Liam says with a squawk of indignation, because he’d just been being a good host. Even if it was his parents’ house and he wasn’t “hosting” anyone really. Not that they’d done much that night. If you call “much” the not-so-innocent touching under his parents’ eyes, giggles and soft shushes while they gave each other a quick hand job on Liam’s childhood bed surrounded by posters of fit-looking singers in bands Liam still worshiped (well, maybe not Take That, but that was mostly because Gary Barlow got fat and Robbie quit the band).

Louis just raises a brow and rolls his eyes. “Maybe not that, then, but you have to admit you’ve been spending a lot of time together. Just the two of you.”

Liam shrugs because he’s still _drunk_ and maybe Louis is making sense, and maybe Louis making sense is something that happens rarely and when he does it’s usually about something important.

“It’s just a bit of kissing, Lou. And a little getting off. There’s nothing wrong with that, is there?”

“This is _me_ you’re talking to, Li. You don’t _do_ anything half-arsed and you certainly don’t do anything that has to do with sex half-arsed, so why is it you’d even begin to think what you and Harry are doing is ‘just a bit of fun between friends’?” Louis actually uses quotes around the last part and Liam sighs, because it’s just like Louis to throw his own words from earlier back at him.

Liam looks down at his hands and there’s _still_ red paint stuck in his knuckles from where Harry hit him with a paintbrush the last night they spent together. They were repainting his room in the shitty house he shared with four other lads and they didn’t even do anything that night. Just painted and giggled and got more red on each other than on Harry’s walls, and when they were done they just curled up on the sofa together, watching reruns of some cooking program Harry liked. Then Ed came home and Harry got baked and Liam fell asleep with his head on Harry’s lap and Harry’s fingers running through his hair while Liam got high on the sweet smell that chased the paint fumes away. 

“Fuck,” Liam says, sitting up further so he can tilt his head back and rub at his eyes with the heels of his hands. “We were dating. Are dating. Were?” 

Louis laughs a little, throwing his arm around Liam’s shoulders and pulling him in for an awkward side hug. “Yes, you were or are. I never thought you’d be this _dense_ , Mr. Payne!”

“I’ve never done casual or whatever it is before, Louis! How was I supposed to know!”

“Christ, Li, I don’t know. You just _do_ , I suppose. Didn’t you and Harry ever talk about what you were doing?” Louis is playing with Liam’s hair again now as Liam rests his head against Lou’s shoulder. It feels nice but it’s not hard and scratchy like Harry does, and this just makes Liam miss Harry and hate himself a little bit more for not realising what things like Harry knowing how to play with his hair right actually meant.

“No,” Liam says, because it’s the truth and they never really talked about _that_ , just more about school and their friends and shit, really. Apart from during anything that included either of their hands on each other’s pricks, because _then_ Liam would get mouthy. Dirty mouthy, even. 

“Liam,” Louis says, dragging out his name like Liam’s mother would when she was upset that he forgot to take the rubbish out on bin day or didn’t get the clothes in before it rained. 

“Why do you think he’s avoiding me, then?” Liam asks, voice soft, nearly a whisper, because if they _were_ dating or whatever—then why hasn’t he heard from Harry in a week?

Louis continues running his fingers through Liam’s hair, pulling him in close so Liam’s now got his nose against Lou’s neck. He smells so familiar, so reassuring almost, that Liam’s eyes are closing even though he wants Louis’ answer.

“Maybe he’s tired of chasing after you, Liam. Maybe he’s waiting for you to chase him?” 

Liam, eyes heavy and closing fast, nods because it’s true. Harry was the one to take him out, seek him out in parties and drag him into town and into clubs, and really Harry was the one who instigated everything apart from labelling what exactly it was that they were doing.

Maybe that was Liam’s job.

“I have to talk to him,” Liam says around a yawn, struggling to pull himself up and off Louis’ body without much effort. It was three in the morning and they _had_ been drinking since—well, three the previous afternoon.

“You do, love. But not tonight. Sleep tonight and see young Harold in the morning and maybe take him those breakfast sandwich things he’s so fond of from that horrible caf Nick works at,” Louis says as he stands up, offering both hands to Liam to pull him up off the sofa.

Liam takes Louis’ hands, holds one loosely as Louis leads them down the hall to his bed. It would feel a little bit like cheating if Liam didn’t actually know he’d had a boyfriend (maybe?) for the past three months and maybe what Louis and Nick had was actually something similar. 

He must show his unease or something as they get to the bed because Louis turns, fixes Liam with a sigh and a “Really? Now you’re getting all proper boyfriend on me? You know we’re not going to _do_ anything, right? You’re drunk and you’re sad and you need a cuddle and I’ve missed your cuddles, seeing as they’ve been mostly for Harry and I’ve had _no one_ to snuggle at all.” 

Liam snorts. “No one? So what were you and Grimmy doing on the sofa yesterday when I walked in, then?”

Louis pouts and maybe reddens a little (Liam can’t be sure, Louis has a bloody scarf or something over his lamp and it’s making _everything_ look a little red, really). “It was _cold_ , we were conserving body heat, and I’ll thank you to keep your little aspersions on our friendship to yourself. Worry about what you’re doing with your own maybe boyfriend!”

Liam tugs at Louis’ fingertips and steps closer; Louis’s other hand fiddles with the tassels on the blanket he and Liam picked up in Morocco their first summer off. “Maybe we’ve both got some issues with boys who are more than our friends to deal with in the morning,” Liam says, and Louis says nothing in return but he does fold the blankets back and crawls onto the mattress, tugging Liam after him. 

“Let’s deal with your strange love life first, shall we? And then we’ll consider talking about what Nick and I get up to,” Louis says, snuggling into Liam’s side where Liam takes on his old role of big spoon and presses his lips against Lou’s forehead.

“Nick, is it? And when did he stop being Grimmy, hey?”

“Shut it and sleep, Payne, or I may never offer my sage advice to you again.”

: : : 

He goes to see Harry the next morning. Well—doesn’t actually get to go and see him because they sort of run into each other at the caf where Nick works. Harry’s coming out with a brown bag in one hand and coffee in the other and Liam is working out just exactly what he wanted to say to Harry and isn’t paying attention as he opens the door. After stepping back and Liam wiping at where Harry’s coffee spilled on his jacket (thank goodness it’s thick because he _knows_ how hot Nick’s coffees can be), they sort of stare at each other and the ground and Liam ends up blurting out words without actually thinking about what he’s saying before he’s said it.

“Are we finished?”

Harry just stares at him, mouth sort of open and eyes confused, if the frown creasing his forehead is anything to go by.

“Finished?” he says, and Liam is still so stunned at seeing Harry here when he was coming to the caf specifically to go _to_ Harry that he just starts stammering out more words.

“Yeah, you know. Us. I mean, I’ve been told there was an us? Maybe I missed that conversation sometime between us kissing and your hand down my pants at Zayn’s party the first time, or maybe we never talked about it because I thought you weren’t the type for exclusive. Are we an exclusive, because I’ve only been seeing you, and then I thought maybe it was because you were using me as an easy out but maybe it’s because you thought we were, and I mean I think I could be with you if you want.” He slows because Harry is kind of smiling but still staring at him. “I mean, if we still are, then I’d be fine. With exclusive. With you.”

Harry licks his lips and blinks five times before answering. (Liam is still so shocked by all that he just said that he is counting everything—his own breaths, Harry’s, and now his eye movements.) “Do you want to come back to mine for breakfast?” 

“Pardon?” 

“Breakfast,” Harry says again, sort of shaking the bag in his hand, and Liam is the one confused now because he just poured everything out and Harry counters with an offer to bloody eat?

“Okay,” is what he says, and Harry rocks back on the balls of his feet, turns and starts walking in the direction of his flat without even checking to see if Liam follows. “Okay,” Liam whispers, more to himself than Harry, and he steps quickly after him because Harry has long legs and he may talk slowly (he likes to think about what he says—it might be something that Liam finds a little endearing), Harry’s stroll is more like Liam’s quick walk so he moves to catch up. 

They’re quiet the entire way there, the only sounds their near-synchronised steps on the wet cement and the white trails of their breath in the cold morning air. Liam’s brain is buzzing with all he said and the way Harry didn’t really react, apart from the offer of food. He suddenly feels like this might be the way Harry lets him down easy.

Though really, it’s poor form to invite someone back to your flat for a breakfast roll and a cuppa only to tell them you’d rather be friends, isn’t it?

Not that Harry offered a cuppa.

This could turn out quite shit, really.

Liam’s worked himself up for the worst by the time Harry is unlocking the horrible green door to his flat (three locks with three different sets of keys; it is a shabby little flat but the rent’s cheap and Harry and his mates spend more on weed and records so it does the job). Harry just walks on into the kitchen, tosses the brown bag on the table, and starts the kettle. So there’s going to be a cuppa in it for Liam after all. Nice. 

He’ll drink that and Harry will tell him they aren’t really an anything and it was all in his (Louis’), head and that’ll be that. 

Liam’s palms are sweating as he stands in the middle of the kitchen, just watching as Harry fusses about cleaning a mug and then pulling out the teabags Liam likes, and wow, when did Harry start keeping Liam’s brand of tea here? Then again, maybe Ed or Niall drink it? Possible, but not likely because Liam’s only ever seen Ed drink green tea (something about antioxidants or something) and Niall practically lives on coffee when he’s not chugging down pints, so . . . . Harry keeps his back to Liam as the kettle boils and he only walks past Liam to get to the fridge for the splash of milk Liam likes. Then he’s pulling up a seat at the table and Liam’s _still_ standing in the middle of the room.

There’s this unearthly squeak as Harry kicks out the chair opposite him, the metal legs scratching over the wooden floor. He doesn’t even look up from where he’s opening the brown bag as he calls out “Sit!” to Liam. Liam does after a second’s hesitation, and he’s swallowing at his dry mouth because this isn’t what he expected. Not that he knew _what_ to expect, but this is . . . definitely not it. He picks up his mug and blows on his tea before taking a sip and appreciating that Harry knows _exactly_ how to make the perfect cup. Harry’s got the breakfast roll out of the bag now, somehow having procured a knife in all of this, and he cuts the thing in half, picking up his own before pushing the remainder over to Liam.

Liam just stares because Harry’s been around Niall long enough to not share his food so easily. It reminds Liam of the previous weekend when Harry offered up the mushrooms out of his chicken and almonds from the Chinese place they’d gone to the night before, and Liam loves mushrooms so he said yes without hesitation. Maybe Louis was right, then, maybe they were a something because the food thing? That was such a more-than-friends thing to do and definitely a more-than-friends-with-benefits thing, and why hasn’t Liam seen this before?

“Eat,” Harry says again with a little more force, between his own bites, so Liam picks his up and does as he’s told, barely tasting the few mouthfuls he manages to chew and swallow down. He’s just so nervous, almost, because Harry is silent and he never _said_ anything to the ramblings Liam came out with in front of the caf. He hasn’t said a word about any of what Liam spluttered on about, just invited him back for breakfast. So Liam forces himself to eat, thinking maybe when they’re both done, Harry will say something.

It’s quiet enough that Liam can hear the tap in the bathroom dripping. (He and Ed tried fixing it one Wednesday after class but somehow made it worse, so instead of a soft drip every few seconds it was a loud continuous drizzle.) He can hear Harry breathing and chewing (though that could be his own jaw popping) and he can hear the ugly rooster clock that Louis brought Harry for his birthday last year ticking in the corner. There’s all this sound and everything; every twitch of Harry’s brow or shift of his fingers around the bread roll have Liam on edge. When Harry is finally licking at the sauce on his fingertips and there’s nothing left of his roll or Liam’s, Liam rubs the greasy residue from his hands on his lap, pushes his chair back a little, and waits.

And waits.

Harry sips at his coffee and Liam stares at his tea because it’s probably perfect drinking temperature right now, but he _needs_ Harry to say something. Anything, really.

But he doesn’t.

And Liam’s going slightly mental waiting for it.

“Thanks,” he manages after clearing his throat a few times. Harry shrugs and half nods and sips at his coffee again (is it a bottomless cup?). 

Liam licks at his lips, scrapes a few crumbs from the outer edge of the top one, and waits some more. His stomach is squeezing around the food he’s eaten, almost as if it’s trying to reject the meal of pacification that Harry’s given him. He hopes he doesn’t vomit when Harry lets him down. Because obviously this is what it’s leading to. 

“You can just say it. I mean, I barely even realised we were a something, so if we aren’t a something or we were before and you don’t want to be now, you can just tell me, you know.” Liam’s mouth gets away from him again and he pinches his fingertips into his thighs because Harry still isn’t looking up from his coffee. 

“I—I liked what we were doing. If that means anything. I liked the kissing and the cuddling—the cuddling a lot, really. I liked the other stuff, too,” Liam says, feeling his face flush with heat because Harry was _really_ good with his hands and those long fingers. “I just like being around you, Haz. Always have. But if it’s going to be awkward or whatever, if that’s the reason you’ve been ignoring me all week—”

“I haven’t been ignoring you.”

Harry speaks and Liam stops because “Yes, you have.”

Harry still isn’t looking up, just gazing at the white throwaway lid of his coffee. “No, I haven’t.”

Liam lets out this frustrated groan. “Yeah, you have, Harry. I haven’t seen or heard from you since last Saturday. That’s a full week yesterday. Not even around uni or a phone call or a text. You weren’t even at Zayn’s party Friday night and I know for a fact he invited you and you asked if I was going to be there, and you didn’t even show up. You knew I was going to be there and you didn’t come.”

Liam absolutely does _not_ get a little choked up at that last admission because he’s not going to cry (again) over the maybe he is with Harry. He’s revealed too much with that little speech and he’s beginning to wonder if he might _still_ be drunk from the night before because he’s never this ineloquent. His writing and spelling might be shit, but if there’s one thing Liam can actually do it’s string a sentence together.

Well, obviously not around Harry, but normally, yes.

Harry raises his eyes and there’s this sadness swirling around the green that Liam knows the depths of intimately and he _hates_ that. A sad Harry is like drowning a kitten and a puppy in a river of kittens and puppies and then slaughtering a herd of unicorns. It’s painful to look at.

“You haven’t seen me since last weekend, Liam.”

Liam laughs a little because “Yes, I know. I was here and then I went home and I haven’t heard from you since.”

Harry just stares at him some more; it’s almost as if he’s willing Liam to think or see something, but Liam can’t. “I told you I’d be here. I told you that Ed was off on some Biology trip and that Niall had to go home for a family thing in Mullingar and I told you I’d be here.”

“But I haven’t seen you. I haven’t even got a text from you, Harry,” Liam says, shaking his head because _what_ is Harry going on about?

“You’re an idiot, Liam. I told you I’d be here, alone. I told you I’d be here _alone.”_ Harry’s still looking at Liam like he’s waiting for Liam to catch up, but try as he might, Liam doesn’t know what he’s missing here. 

“Yeah, you said they were doing stuff and you said you’d be on your own and that you couldn’t wait for a bit of time to yourself in the house. You said, Harry, that you were looking forward to it,” Liam remembers, nearly quoting what Harry said that afternoon before he got too sleepy from the kissing earlier and then the smoking Ed and Harry were doing around him. He remembers Harry saying that and it was why, in the beginning, he didn’t try and get in contact with Harry at all.

“I was giving you space,” Liam adds, and it’s Harry who rocks back in his chair with his own frustrated sound, wiping his hands down his face before sitting up again so he’s glaring at Liam.

“I said I was looking forward to having the house to myself because I’d have this house and _you_ to myself. We never get time on our own, Liam. You have Louis, and Louis has whatever he has with Nick, and I have two annoying housemates. I wanted _you_ here with me for a week, you tosser.”

Liam finds himself echoing Harry’s earlier eye condition, blinking in surprise or shock or whatever. “You didn’t say.”

“I didn’t think I needed to! Christ, Liam. We’ve practically been together since three weeks after you and Louis broke it off, and that’s not even counting when we really _did_ start being a more-than-friends thing about six months after that, because I waited for you to come to me. I’m always bloody waiting for you to catch up.”

“Well, how was I supposed to know all of that? We never talked about what we were doing. You just started kissing me when we were drunk, and then there was that time at Zayn’s and that time after at Cher’s, but I just—” Liam pauses because he feels like he’s digging himself a hole here and Harry isn’t helping, he’s just throwing flowers in, and that makes no sense. “I didn’t think you wanted any more and I didn’t want to push because I liked what we had.”

Harry shakes his head again. “Liam, you were the one coming out of a proper relationship. I kept waiting for you to ask for more but you never did. You treated me like a friend when we weren’t drunk and then got handsy when we were. Now it’s changed—yeah, we kiss all the time, but not in front of anyone—and the sort-of sex is nice, great. But I want more, and I wanted you to want more with me.”

“I do,” Liam says, staring Harry straight in the eyes because they’ve waited so long for this clarity and he wants Harry to see that he means what he says. “I want more. With you. If you still want me,” he finishes, and his hands are on the edge of the table top, tapping out an uneven rhythm, a tic Liam always gets when he’s nervous. It matches the beat of his heart and the twisty feeling in his tummy. Harry stands, scraping the floor some more with his chair before stepping around to Liam’s seat. He leans in and clasps Liam’s fingers, bends close so Liam can see every single one of his dark eyelashes, see the the second that Harry’s pink lips lift into a smile and see the moment the green in Harry’s eyes darkens. 

“I’ve always wanted you,” Harry says, and then he’s kissing Liam softly, these light pecks, and it feels like first kisses because Liam’s body is buzzing but it shouldn’t be because they’ve kissed _so_ many times before. 

It’s light pressure and their eyes wide open and then Liam twists his hands around so his fingers slot in the spaces between Harry’s as he surges up and stands, chair falling forgotten to the floor in his haste. Harry lets him bring their joined hands to Harry’s hips, squeezes them for a moment as their light pecks continue, then lets go. His warm palms light up and over Liam’s arms and rub over his shoulders before settling on either side of Liam’s face. Harry guides their kissing from there, tilting Liam’s head a little at the same time that his tongue traces the seam of Liam’s lips until Liam’s moaning with enough of an open mouth to let Harry in. It’s proper snogging then, all clacking teeth and Liam’s fingers sliding up under Harry’s shirt (thank goodness he removed that awful bomber jacket when they came in) and squeezing hard enough to leave the shape of his fingertips in purple hues on Harry’s skin. 

Harry’s backing them up then, one shaky step, then two, and Liam’s against the wall. Harry’s hand draws this heated path down Liam’s chest, toys with his belt buckle for a moment before Liam helps him undo it, both their hands shaking because this they might have done before. This is sort of familiar but there’s no alcohol around at the moment, there’s not even music playing, and they’re not bored with nothing better to do. There’s no “excuse” for Harry dropping to his knees after sucking on Liam’s tongue. There’s no reason of “just because” when Harry pulls Liam’s cock half-hard and working on getting harder through just the hole that his fly can make because their hands are too jittery to even try and get the buckle off. There’s nothing but want between them as Harry’s lips slip over the head of Liam’s dick, Harry moaning as his tongue laps at the slit and Liam’s head banging against the stupid row of hooks Niall hung there for some reason (he was drunk—there’s always a reason for stupid things when Niall is drunk). 

There’s nothing but this “more” between them after Liam comes down Harry’s throat and Harry sort of collapses back onto the floor breathless and hard himself. There’s nothing but Liam wanting to return the favour to—his boyfriend?—when Liam tugs at Harry’s jeans that always fit loose around his waist and there’s nothing but wanting to make _his_ Harry feel good when he discovers just how much of Harry’s cock he can fit in his own mouth.

It’s good after that. It’s good when Louis and Nick walk in the next Monday afternoon at Liam and Lou’s shared flat to find Harry riding Liam on the couch in nothing but his two necklaces and one sock that Liam was just in too much of a hurry to _have_ Harry to pull off. It’s good when their stupid friends all throw them a “boyfriends” party at the bar Nick’s best mate DJs at and Liam just holds Harry’s hand and rolls his eyes at the good-natured jeers their so-called mates take out on them.

It’s good. It’s great. And then it’s not.

**: 2 :**

The next time they break up. It’s not because of words _unsaid_ but words that Harry spews like a fount of vitriol, leaving Liam open-mouthed in shock and unable to move as Harry slams the door and walks out of Liam’s flat.

It was stupid, really. It wasn’t even a fight about them in the beginning—had nothing to do with them at all but somehow led to raised voices and thrown shoes, of all things, and then slammed doors and silence. Liam hates silence. He sits on the sofa and stares at the front door and just stares and stares as the sunlight finally falls away in the window, shadows shifting from one side of the room to the other, and he still sits and stares as the room turns black. 

He stares and stares and recounts the words spoken that led him to being so alone and he has no idea why it had to come down to this. Not when it had been going so well. Not when it felt like what he and Harry had was so strong it could suffer through anything and come out the other side.

“Babes? Did we forget to pay the power bill again?” Louis’ voice cuts into the stillness of the flat and Liam jumps at the sound of the front door closing, however much softer it was than before.

“Li, why are you sitting in the dark?” Louis says, and Liam hears him throwing his messenger bag down on the ugly brown wingback chair Harry and Liam had bought at some market thing that Harry had dragged Liam along to one weekend when neither of them had to work. It was awful but it was comfortable—not that Liam would ever tell Harry that ,and now maybe he’d never get the opportunity to. Not with words like “Fuck you, Liam,” and “Knew this would happen,” and more things that just hurt Liam to think about. 

Liam watches Lou walk in front of him—he’s got his favourite pair of socks on, which means Liam can see Louis’ big toe on his right foot through the gigantic hole there. Louis believes in all sorts of strange little things including rabbits’ feet, and rubbing their Irish fairy for good luck (Niall _never_ approves of that) and socks that he scored the winning goal in for the football finals in his senior year at college. Liam used to find it really sweet when they were dating, found it kind of funny when they weren’t, and now—well, now it’s something that pisses Liam off because of everything that Harry said.

“Liam, is something wrong? I’m used to you getting maudlin, yeah, but sitting in the dark and staring off into the distance is a little bit too suicide-watch even for you,” Louis says, attempting a little laugh at the end there. When Liam doesn’t join in or give anything away, Louis drops down on his haunches where he can catch Liam’s eyes. 

“What’s going on?” Louis asks, concern laced through his tone, careful hands warm to the touch over the shorts Liam’s wearing. It’s summer and Niall had dragged Lou out to play a quick game of sevens at the park—probably so Niall could show off to whatever tart has taken his interest this week, and Lou could actually _play_ whereas Nialler would just faff about with the ball and attempt to do tricks that usually ended up with him having a bloody nose and the bird he was into fixing him up. In more ways than one. 

Normally, Louis’ touch comforted Liam in a way that very few people in Liam’s life could. It was a touch that came with the history they had together and the way that Louis could just _read_ Liam at times like these that somehow made things better. But not this time. Not after Harry throwing Louis and their friendship back in Liam’s face.

Not after accusing Liam of wanting Louis back.

Which was stupid.

“Hey now, babes. Tell your Louis just what the problem is and I’ll try and fix it,” Louis says, clambering onto Liam’s lap. He’s straddling Liam in a way that could be sexual but it’s not, because Louis is sitting back on Liam’s knees almost and has his hands on Liam’s shoulders, fingertips pressing in lightly.

Louis reaches over to the side of Liam, close enough that Liam can smell sweat and grass and that dirty scent boys get when they run around pretending to show off for each other and help a mate get in with a girl. Louis flicks the lamp on and Liam blinks at the light, not failing to catch the fact that Louis has no shirt on (probably whipped the thing off when he was walking home and left it on the floor near the entryway when he got in). Louis has always been in shape, looked after himself with the odd gym visit and occasional diet that lasted on average four days before he caved and bought himself a Coke and curry, which was usually followed by at least three cornettos for desert. So it’s not Liam’s fault if he stares a bit. Louis is damp from all that running around in the afternoon sun and probably the walk home in what feels like an endless bloody heatwave in London right now, so his torso is covered in this sheen of sweat that glimmers in the warm lamplight. 

He slides his hands up over Liam’s shoulders until he’s cupping Liams face and squeezing at his cheeks. “Liam, what’s going on?”

Liam stares into Lou’s eyes and Lou looks worried, looks like he’s listening properly, which is what Liam has always loved about their friendship. The loud and brash and in your face with his quick wit charmer that Louis is can equally be the quiet, caring soul that not many get to see. Liam’s glad he’s one of those people, glad he knows who the real Louis is under all the shiny packaging. But Harry didn’t see it like that. Thought how snuggly Lou still was with Liam was an act and that the flirting was more than friendly, and it’s not like that. It’s not.

_“Liam.”_

“Harry’s gone,” Liam blurts out, and his throat closes up around the words as he says them because he hasn’t let himself believe that Harry walked out. Bag hastily filled with whatever he could grab from their bedroom floor and closet, Zayn’s hoodie he left here the previous weekend sticking out of the top, and Harry slamming everything as he rambled on and on and Liam argued in return. 

“What do you mean, gone?” 

“Gone,” Liam says again, biting at the inside of his lip and swallowing hard because it’s too soon to talk about this. Not now. And definitely not with the person who is the reason behind Harry leaving in the first place.

“Like, to Nando’s to get dinner, or gone to his mum’s, or gone . . . oh,” Louis says, and his lips turn down and his hands slip down over Liam’s back, pulling him in for a hug and Liam doesn’t know where to put his hands to accept it. He ends up leaving them on the sofa and hates how good it feels to have Louis so close right now. Louis’ always been the touchy-feely type; he’s telling with his emotions that way and he’s like this with everyone. Harry’s wrong. 

But then Louis is nuzzling his nose against Liam’s neck and whispering these “Oh Liam”s like it’s the end of the world. Shouldn’t he be telling Liam he’s overreacting? Louis pats at the parts of Liam’s shoulder blades he can reach and presses his lips to Liam’s cheek and forehead before he sits back, arse nearly cradled in Liam’s crotch, too close for comforting—well, the friendly type.

“What happened?” Louis says, his hands cupping Liam’s face again and thumbs rubbing softly back and forth across Liam’s skin. 

Liam shrugs and Louis’ frown deepens. He shifts on his knees a little, bringing his body closer to Liam’s, and all Liam can hear is Harry going on and on about how Louis touched Liam too much. Got too close. Looked like he wanted closer still.

But Liam doesn’t. And Louis is his friend and Harry’s wrong. He’s just wrong.

He and Louis aren’t _that_ anymore. Haven’t been for years. 

“Do you want to kiss me, Lou?” Liam finds himself saying, because he’s got Harry’s accusations in his ears and he’s got a half-naked Louis in his lap and Harry is gone. 

Louis pulls back and his hands fall between them. “What?”

Liam blinks but makes himself watch Louis’ eyes. Watch for the signs Harry said were there and watch to see if he’s as good as he used to be at reading Louis’ tells. 

“Do you want to kiss me?” he says, pronouncing each word with emphasis. His stomach is in knots and his mouth is like the bloody Sahara, but he wants to prove Harry wrong. Just because Louis and Nick didn’t work out doesn’t mean that Louis dumped Nick so he could get back with Liam. Louis knows how much Harry means to Liam. Knows that Liam isn’t one to cheat, isn’t one to even consider it as an option, yet here he is.

“Why—why would you ask that?” Louis says, standing up. His eyes are so wide, this look of shock etched on his brow, and he’s backing up and Liam knows that Harry was wrong. Knows it right to the hurt inside his chest that Harry was _wrong_ about Louis. 

Liam lets his head fall back against the sofa and makes a long whining noise because he shouldn’t have said anything to Lou, should have trusted in what he knew their friendship was, but he can’t help but compare what he has with Louis to what he has with Harry and why can’t Harry just _trust_ him? 

“Harry,” Liam says, rubbing at his eyes with the heels of his hands, trying to block out the look on Louis’ face and just how hurt he looks by Liam even _asking_. 

“Harry thinks I want to _kiss you_?” Louis says. He makes kissing sound like murder, and Liam hates in a way that Harry isn’t here to see Louis’ reaction to this. Liam nods and opens his eyes after a while because Louis is silent and he rarely ever is that, so he must be thinking about all of this.

Louis is pacing.

Louis doesn’t pace.

“Is this coming from Nick? What—so he cheats with his ex-boyfriend and he assumes I’ll do the same?” Oh, Liam thinks, that’s what happened between Lou and Nick, then; because Lou hadn’t said anything, just came home three weeks ago and said they weren’t to mention the N or the G word anymore and he didn’t want to talk about it.

“And that’d be just bloody like him, too. Poisoning Harry’s mind with shit just because Harry is young and naive and actually in love with _his_ boyfriend. Arrogant bloody prick!”

“Harry’s in love with me?” Liam says, sort of shocked because, yeah, he knew his own feelings had grown and there were so many, many times he’d wanted to say those three little words to Harry but didn’t. Didn’t because he wasn’t sure if Harry was there, too. Didn’t because Harry would sometimes look at Liam like he felt the same and Liam thought it was enough. Didn’t because he wanted to make it special, not just say it while they were lying about on the sofa picking a show to watch or something mundane like that.

Louis snorts. “Of course he bloody is! Everyone can see it, even Mrs Whitaker next door bloody knows about you and Harry and your Romeo and Juliet thing without the death.” He’s still pacing, and Liam is blinking and thinking of missed opportunities so he doesn’t realise that Louis has finally stopped until Lou’s got Liam’s hands in his and is pulling him up.

“Come on,” Louis says, dragging Liam to the door, stopping only to pick up his keys from the side table and throw his shirt on before they head out. Liam, who takes forever to process things on a good day , is still trying to put it all together and just follows without question. 

Louis is mumbling obscenities that center around “bloody wanker” and “stupid arse” interspersed with “we’ll just see” and “hurting my Liam like that” as they head down the flight of stairs that takes them to the ground floor and out the front door into the muggy night air. They head off down the road, past the shuttered doors of the caf Liam has been under orders _not_ to enter since things went wrong with Nick, and then around the corner to the flat Liam knows Nick rents above the shop. He does slow down a little then, pulling back on Louis’ hand where he’s got his fingers wrapped in a steel-like grip around Liam’s own.

“Lou—” he begins, but Lou’s already pulling out his key (and how did Liam not know that Lou had a key to Nick’s?) and then they’re inside and walking up stairs and Liam can hear two voices. 

Two familiar voices, and one’s tone sounds very similar to Louis’. 

Louis doesn’t even hesitate before pushing the door to Nick’s open. Nick never locks the thing because he figures the one on street level should be enough. Liam really _does_ try to pull out of Louis’ grip now because Harry is there, and he’s obviously still upset if the red rimming his eyes is anything to go by.

“Right,” Louis says as a way of making their presence known, and that’s the _only_ thing he says before spinning around to where Liam is staring at Harry and then there’s no Harry, only Louis. Louis’ hands on either side of his face and Louis’ tongue poking into Liam’s mouth.

The next actions all come as a bit of a blur but Liam knows that he shoves Louis off—hard—and there’s a shout and then Louis is on the floor and Harry is hopping around holding his hand and Louis is bleeding on the ground with Nick crouched down beside him holding what looks like a tea towel to his nose. 

“I told you,” Louis says from the floor, staring up at Harry and batting at Nick’s hands away from where he’s trying to staunch the flow of blood from what could be a break in Lou’s nose, if the swelling that’s started already is anything to go by. “I told you, Harold, he loves you, not me.”

Liam blinks and finally understands what the fuck Louis has just done. “Did you just kiss me to prove a point?” 

Louis rolls his eyes, slapping at Nick’s hand once more. “Piss _off_ , Grimshaw.” He pushes himself up a bit further on his elbows and snaps his fingers in Harry’s direction. “Do you see now? I’m not in love with him and he’s not in love with me. He loves you, too, you idiot.”

Harry stops spinning, just shakes his hand now and looks at the floor and he’s flexing his fingers when he nods. Liam’s stomach swoops and he isn’t sure of what to do. His mouth is open and he wipes at the drool that Louis’ tongue left on his chin and he just stares at Harry until Harry finally looks up and meets his eye. “Harry,” he says, but he can’t get any other words out. Can’t find what he needs to say, because what _do_ you say in an event like this?

There’s mostly silence between them all, just staring and Nick shout-whispering at Louis to let him help and then Louis is shoving at Nick and saying, “Haven’t you already done enough?” And they bicker some more, but Liam’s ignoring it now. He has to ignore it because he has to know. “You loved me, then?” he says, his tone thick with emotion he thought he could hide but obviously not.

Harry nods again like a puppet on a string, but steps toward Liam. “Love.”

And Liam has to clear his throat to get “What?” out and his pulse is racing, he can feel it just below every inch of his skin, thumping a rapid beat because Harry said—

“Love, not loved, Li.” 

Liam doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t wait, because he was so close to never having the right time to tell Harry. And if your ex-boyfriend getting hit by your current boyfriend over the latter thinking the former was still in love you, then when is a better time to say “I love you, too"?

Harry smiles, and it’s a proper smile, two dimples, crinkly bright green eyes, and Liam takes his hand—the good one. He steps closer again until they’re so close that he can breathe in Harry’s “Love you so much” just before he kisses him good and deep. “Love you, love you, too,” Liam says in between breaks for breath, and he just wants to tell Harry that forever, have Harry never doubt it again. He probably _would_ have started that forever there and then, but Nick interrupts with a “Oh, don’t mind us, then, I’ll just tend to your bleeding friend and you two shag on my rug. Cheers.”

Harry pulls back, resting his forehead against Liam’s, and says something about Louis still being a twat before walking forward, pushing Liam toward the door.

“You’re welcome!” Liam thinks he hears Louis call back, but it’s lost amongst the door closing and Harry pushing him up against it and snogging him thoroughly once more. And it’s good, it’s great, and Liam’s so very the opposite of what he felt sitting in their flat alone before that he doesn’t want it to stop. 

But it does because he puts his hands on Harry’s chest and pushes a little. “You believe me now? That I never wanted Louis? It’s only you.”

Harry’s breathing fast, his nostrils flaring as he says yes so soft and quiet, and then, “I’m sorry. It shouldn’t have taken Louis to show me that. I should have just believed you, but Nick said some shit and I just saw how easily he fell in with Henry again and I couldn’t . . . all I could see was how clingy Louis had been with you since he split with Nick and I saw it happening to me and I didn’t—" He takes a shaky breath. "I’m sorry I didn’t trust you.”

“You should have. I’ve never given you cause not to,” Liam says, because even though they’re just outside Nick’s door and Nick and Louis can probably hear them talking about their relationship while trying to sort out Harry and Liam’s own, it needs to be said. The air has to be cleared before the I-love-yous can really count like they should.

Liam sighs. “You need to talk to me more, Harry. You talk a lot, but you never say what you feel and I can’t read your mind. I need you to say what you mean. You’ve done this twice to me now and we’ve nearly broken each time. You can’t do that anymore.” Liam says the words softly, breaking at the end because it hurt. This wasn’t even a week like the first time; this was hours and it felt like a forever, and Liam—he’s not the type to withstand that type of heartbreak. Not with how he feels about Harry. Not now, knowing how Harry feels about him.

“Okay,” Harry says, and Liam must look at him a little sternly or something because he adds, “I’ll try and explain myself more. I’ll try.” 

“Thank you,” Liam says in return. And then Harry’s hand is in his and Harry just looks—well, happy, but tired, too, and Liam feels just the same, the afternoon's events weighing heavily on them both. 

“Home?” Harry says and Liam nods, thinking that maybe this is the first time Harry’s said the word and it really feels like he means _their_ home, not just Liam’s.

“Home,” Liam says in return, and they’re just about at the bottom of the stairs when Louis’ voice rings out, loud and clear, and has them in fits of laughter.

“A thank-you would have been bloody decent! Especially since you’re leaving me here with this wanker. And yes, Nicholas, tell Henry to fuck off, won’t you, that you’re going to be fucking me instead.”

Always pushy, was his Louis. 

That night when they get home they have sex and it’s different, feels like more, and it is maybe, because this time even though the meaning and the actions are the same, those three words have been spoken and it changes everything.

It changes everything and everything is better for it.

They’re stronger for it.

Until they’re not anymore. 

**: 3 :**

The third time they break up, it’s not with a whisper or a shout or slamming doors or anything. 

They’re sitting at the table. Quiet. Composed. 

Harry is munching on some cereal he found in the cupboard, left over from when Louis was still living with them so it’s got to be nearly stale seeing as he moved out six months before. Liam is chewing on toast, sipping at tea that has long since gone cold while scrolling back through the proposal he and Zayn are working on that’s due at the end of the week. The silence between them isn’t tense. It’s not comfortable, either—it just is. It _is_ how they spend their time most often lately, when they do spend time together. 

Moving in with each other was supposed to make it easier, living the busy lives they both did post-uni, Harry working late at the bar or performing there and Liam trying to juggle his internship that paid next to nothing and the few shifts he managed at Nick’s bloody cafe in between times. They were both busy and burning the candle at both ends, so yeah, they were tired and occasionally snippy with each other and yeah, their sex life had become something of a memory, but that’s what happened when you grew up, wasn’t it? Got proper jobs and worked long hours and mostly saw each other before you went to sleep or accidentally woke each other up when your alarm went off. It was normal. 

Yet it really wasn’t.

“This isn’t working, is it?” Liam says. “Us.” He doesn’t even know why he says it; he wasn’t even thinking about them, really. The words just tumble out of his mouth after he finishes the last corner of his toast and leans back in his chair, rubbing at his eyes because if he looks at this page of writing one more time he’s going to go blind. 

Harry doesn’t say anything in return right away. Just chews at the cereal in his mouth, licks his tongue over the few specks of milk that have landed on his upper lip before putting down his spoon. “No,” he finally says, voice all morning-croaky and still slow from sleep even though he’s been up for an hour. That tone used to do _things_ to Liam; now it’s just normal. Harry. And that should upset him, but it doesn’t.

“Okay,” Liam says, blinking a little because that was easy. Too easy. But Harry’s back to eating the rest of his cereal and Liam watches for a moment, then picks up his cup of tea that is nearly cold and sips at it some more.

They don’t say anything else as each of them goes about finishing off their breakfast. Harry takes Liam’s plate when he’s done eating. Washes them up and presses his lips to Liam’s forehead just like he always does when they eat breakfast together, and Liam continues working on the proposal, messaging Zayn about different issues as he usually does, and it’s normal. Eventually another hour or so passes and Liam just can’t look at the damn document anymore and shuts his computer down. He finds Harry sitting on the floor in the living room, records all around him, and that’s not unusual either; Harry always does a little dj’ing on a Saturday night at the pub and Liam brushes his hand through Harry’s curls as he walks by headed for the shower. 

The rest of his morning is like any other weekend, only when Liam walks back out to the living room, dressed and showered, Harry isn’t just packing a selection of records—he’s packed them all. There are five crates sitting by the far wall and his stereo is unplugged, too. Now he’s got a box (one left over from Louis’ move) and is filling it with DVDs. Liam sits down beside him and takes out a few from the shelf, putting back the ones he’s sure he owns and adding Harry’s to his pile, stopping only to question ownership when he really can’t recall who bought what. 

They get that done fairly quickly; they’ve both mostly watched things online or have the odd boxed set from a TV show they’d loved, so there’s not that much to do. Liam’s folding up the box when Harry speaks again. “Bedroom?” 

Liam nods and follows and they talk about the football scores from a game during the week as they empty the drawers of socks and pants. Liam sits on the bed, folding Harry’s shirts and trousers into the suitcases he’d bought for Harry the year before when they went on holiday to Malta for the summer, and it’s strange how this doesn’t feel weird. It doesn’t feel like breaking up, it doesn’t feel like anything really.

Which should be a sign in itself.

Liam gets a phone call from his mum a little ways into Harry cleaning out the bathroom and he takes it outside, telling her about his week and listening to her go on about the new foods his dad is making her try from the wok Harry and Liam bought for his last birthday. By the time he finishes with her, Harry’s things are all lined up at the front door, empty spaces throughout the flat the only reminder that someone other than Liam lived in their home. Harry’s sitting on the sofa, watching old repeats of Nigella, and Liam joins him after making them both a cup of tea. 

They drink quietly until Harry turns, putting their cups on the coffee table, and with these big green eyes just _looking_ into Liam’s he straddles Li’s lap and they kiss all slow and warm and familiar. Fingertips find places that they know will turn the other on—the small patch of skin on the inside of Harry’s elbow, the spaces between Liam’s ribs that Harry tiptoes over so gently it borders on being ticklish but when Harry does it just so makes Liam lose his breath in the best of ways. Soon Harry’s tugging on the drawstring of Liam’s jogging trousers and Liam’s pushing Harry to stand so he can tug off Harry’s pants and they haven’t stopped kissing the whole time. It should feel like a goodbye, it should feel like an end, but it feels like neither. All Liam knows is Harry’s taste, the feel of Harry’s tongue as it swirls around Liam’s fingertips. Swallowing Harry’s sounds as he slips one, then two fingers inside where it’s tight and hot, and Harry’s smile as he finds the tube of lube they always have hidden between the sofa cushions. Then it’s Liam’s near whimpers as Harry slicks him up and slides down and they rock together, all soft whispers and lips so close they breathe each other in until Harry’s coming in hot, white stripes over Liam’s chest and Liam follows moments later. 

Harry might rest his head on Liam’s shoulder for longer than normal after. Liam might hold Harry a little tighter while he does so. Eventually they have to move; Liam’s going soft and they’re both sticky and salty with sweat. They shower together, more touches that are filled with words neither of them say, at least on Liam’s part, because this, the sex, this is something they’ve always done well. And in the thousands of things that Liam imagines saying he can’t even find one while Harry’s not looking at him anymore, just around, and Liam’s doing the same because this, _this_ finally feels like the end neither of them have quite said out loud. They dress and Harry maintains a distance between them that Liam feels as he follows Harry out to the door, follows him out to Harry’s car and helps him fit in all the boxes that are proof of what they once were. 

When they’re done and there’s no room left in Harry’s little Honda, words are finally spoken.

Harry’s first, clearing his throat and looking up at Liam from under the black Raybans that Liam wore the entire time they were in Ibiza the year he and Louis broke up and Harry stole when they came home. “I’ll be at Ed’s. He’s got a spare room.”

Liam can only nod because his chest is tight and he’s swallowing around the lump that somehow just developed in his throat. “Right,” he manages, pushing his hands deeper into the pockets of his hoodie. 

A car drives past and then another and Harry finally turns the engine over and still nothing more is said. Harry’s looking straight forward now and Liam feels this rush of things he should be saying, the " _don’t go, I was wrong,”_ and “ _tell me you want to stay, tell me we can fix this,”_ but he says nothing. Can’t even open his mouth to get out one final goodbye as Harry pulls out from the curb. He can’t even stay there to watch until the car disappears around the corner. Instead he walks back inside, puts on the kettle, and boots up his computer, and works until night becomes day once more.

 

Then the next day happens and the next, and after a week Louis rings and asks him out to dinner and he declines because he really _is_ busy. Louis accepts it that time, and then the next a week later, but it’s two weeks after that when he’s dodged Lou’s calls and texts that Louis shows up on his doorstep and Liam can’t ignore it anymore. 

Louis walks in all loud and brash and pushy as he calls out to Harry and breezes past Liam with his hands clasped around takeaway bags from the local curry place that Liam knows Harry loves. 

“Hazza not in?” Louis asks, putting down the bags on the kitchen table before pulling out two plates from where they’ve always been since they shared the flat together. 

“No,” Liam says, because—well, he’s not.

Louis’ tipping out rice and opening lids to the Rogan Josh that Harry loves and Liam doesn’t while he continues. “Working at the pub, then?” 

“Probably,” Liam says with a shrug, standing in the middle of his own kitchen and fiddling with the string on his hoodie, anything not to look at Louis right now.

“Probably?” Louis laughs, pulling out a chair and sitting down while scooping a butter chicken into his mouth,. “You don’t exactly sound sure on your boyfriend’s whereabouts, mate.”

Liam just piles his plate with food he probably won’t eat because he just can’t face food at the moment. It’s not because of how he feels about Harry and it ending. It’s not.

“Liam,” Louis says after the silence between them is only marked by Liam pushing chicken around and scraping his plate with the fork. “Liam, where’s Harry?”

“We broke up.”

“Again?”

Liam nods and shoves a way-too-big forkful of food into his mouth hoping that the fact it’s full means he won’t have to answer any of the barrage of questions he knows will be coming from Louis. 

“ _Liam_ ,” Louis starts, but then stops himself short with a shake of his head. “Nope, I’ve done this before. I’m not being your go-between anymore. Whatever you did, Li, you can fix on your own.”

Liam chews and swallows slowly because he didn’t really do anything—and yeah, maybe that was the problem, but Harry didn’t either and they haven’t spoken since then and it should hurt. But it doesn’t. It doesn’t feel like anything, really, and maybe that’s even worse.

They eat and don’t talk and it’s weird really because Louis is usually jam-packed full of chatter and stories to tell and he’s never truly quiet. The rest of the night they spend watching some match on TV where Louis curses the ref out for every call (bad or not), and they don’t talk about Harry. They don’t talk about how Liam is or how Liam feels or what Liam should or shouldn’t be doing or what happened, and by the time they’re watching a movie that Louis also brought around Liam thinks they might just never talk about it ever. Which is fine by him.

Louis falls asleep on the sofa and Liam covers him with a blanket and the next day they have breakfast at Nick’s cafe and Louis and Nick chat and even flirt a little, and it’s funny because they’ve been over for half as long as Harry and Liam were together and they are still friends. Well, as friendly as they’ll ever be. It makes Liam wonder if he’ll have that with Harry again. It’s been nearly a month now and the space has been good—sort of. He doesn’t think about it when he pulls out his phone and sends Harry off a text that is simply a “thinking of you, hope your well” and hesitates over the x or a smiley face and settles for both. 

He doesn’t check his phone again until it buzzes in his pocket late that night with a message in return: “you too, both counts” and a similar kiss and smiley. It’s nice. It feels a little like it did way back in the beginning when Harry asked to borrow a pen in their first class together. It feels a little like friendship.

**\- 4 -**

The next time they break up, it’s not really a break-up as such because they aren’t really together.

He doesn’t hear from Harry or text him again for another few weeks, and he doesn’t notice how long it’s been. Not really. He and Zayn give another presentation and it goes really well and then work picks up again, and before long it’s Niall’s birthday and Liam gets a phone call and an invite to the house party Niall throws every year. Niall says nothing about the breakup with Harry either, and for a moment Liam wonders if nobody knows, or maybe they just all knew it was going to happen. 

Was it obvious to everyone that the end was on the cards? Or were they never expected to last as long as they had after all?

Liam goes to Niall’s party, sees Louis and Nick arguing when he gets in—late, because for a little while there he was talking himself out of coming but he figured better late than never. Everyone’s well and truly socially lubricated and Liam starts in on beer himself while catching up with Niall, who he finds surrounded by girls, none of whom Liam’s met before, but then again he runs in different circles than Niall. Niall was Harry’s friend. Niall gets a space cleared for him, and before Liam knows it he’s been there for a few hours and he’s well on his way to sloshed. He’s laughing and snorting and got his arm around Perrie because Zayn’s gone off to the loo and she’s got his hand shoved on her breast because of some reason that they both thought was hilarious at the time. Of course, that’s when he looks up and blinks away tears and sees Harry. 

Harry winks and nods and raises his glass of bourbon to Liam before walking on in those terribly tight black jeans of his and a shirt that’s hanging so low at the neck Liam can see all of those damn swallow tattoos he once liked tracing with his tongue. And it’s fine. Really. 

It’s fine when he gets up a little later and heads to the loo and meets Harry coming out just as Liam’s about to go in. It’s fine when they both stare at each other and smile a little shyly before giving in to what feels like nervous laughter. It’s fine that Liam’s stomach ties itself in knots when Harry licks his lips and bites at the bottom one before his hand reaches out to shift a stray curl behind Liam’s ear; he hasn’t cut his hair since Harry left, and it’s grown out. It’s fine when Liam turns his face and presses his lips to Harry’s palm and it’s fine that Harry gasps, and his other hand meets Liam’s hip, his grip tight. It’s fine when Harry pulls Liam back into the bathroom and it’s most definitely, positively, amazingly fine when Liam spins them around once they’re inside, lips glued together until Harry’s back hits the door and Liam’s knees hit the floor and he sucks Harry off.

It’s fine.

Really.

He gets up when he’s done and they’re both out of breath and they laugh a little and Harry jacks Liam off awfully fast (he’s had only his hand since Harry left). It’s fine. They giggle again, trade sloppy kisses, and they walk out and Harry gets sidetracked by Aimee and Liam gets pulled onto the makeshift dance floor by Nick and that’s that, really.

Until the next party. Liam doesn’t think about it. Doesn’t even know Harry will be there because it’s a party at Cher’s and Harry and Cher were never great mates and Liam hardly talks to her anymore, but it’s an excuse to go out and he does. So it’s not something he’s looking for, another hookup in another bathroom, but it happens and this time they barely pull down each other’s trousers before their cocks are sliding against each other and Harry’s moaning into his mouth. When they’ve both come and Liam’s licking Harry’s spunk from his fingers and Harry is cleaning up, they just smile and leave together. Liam doesn’t drink that night but he smokes a little with Ed and sees Harry dancing with Caroline, and it’s lovely when Harry smiles at him and Liam doesn’t feel bad or good, he just smiles back.

It goes on like that for another four months. Four months of quickies at big parties, dinner parties, and even that night Louis had them both over to watch the premiership league final and he’d passed out after drinking too much vodka and Liam and Harry had sucked each other off right on the seat beside an unconscious Louis. It’s fine. It’s not a problem. It’s not weird or anything. It’s just mutual orgasms, really.

Well, that’s what Liam convinces himself of until Louis catches them coming out of the bathroom at Zayn’s the night Perrie is attempting to cook them a roast and has managed—this time—not to burn the bird to a charcoal effigy.

Liam’s wiping at his mouth and Harry is giggling, fingertips still tucked in the space between Liam’s belt and his trousers, when Louis stops them with his arms crossed and a brow raised skyward.

Liam stops dead and Harry runs into his back, laughing harder until it fades because he can see Louis, too.

“I’d ask what this is, but you’d only lie and tell me it was nothing. So I’m not going to say you two really _should_ get your shit together, as much as I want to. I’m not even going to tell you both how stupid you are for falling into this again when I bet you’ve not even properly talked since you split up, because I know that’d be pointless. I’m not even going to dignify this—” he pauses to wave a hand at them— “with any sort of comment at all.” And with that he turns and walks back down the hall, and Liam’s good mood from coming down the tight confines of Harry’s throat fades completely. 

It must do something similar to Harry, too, because his grip on Liam disappears and then the quiet of the hall is even louder, peppered by the beating of Liam’s heart and the sound of his breath loud in his ears.

Harry opens his mouth and closes it, shaking his head and fixing his hair before walking after Louis and leaving Liam to wonder at just how stupid he’s become.

: : :

They don’t talk about it.

They don’t do _that_ anymore, either, and the awkwardness that didn’t exist between them post-breakup most definitely exists now.

Liam blames Louis for it a bit (a lot) and then blames himself even more (the most). 

Liam knows it was stupid, falling back into a habit like that with an ex, and it blurred the line between being over and being something. And Liam knows—well, thinks he knows—that their not being together is a good thing. It has to be, doesn’t it? 

**: +1 :**

Liam comes home one day after work; it’s late, he’s got his arms full of papers that Simon dumped on him at the last minute, and he forgot to have lunch—barely had breakfast—and he stubbed his bloody toe getting off the tube, so he’s not in the best of moods when he finds Harry sitting outside the front door. It stops him dead, though, because he hasn’t seen Harry since that night at Zayn’s. Liam got busy with work and Harry got busy actually performing gigs that weren’t just at the pub, and not even just in London. They were busy, really busy, and that’s the excuse Liam would have given had anyone asked. Really, it was more the fact that Liam was avoiding having to deal with what Louis hinted at, and the truth—that he didn’t know exactly what he _was_ doing with Harry. What to label it, how honest he wanted to be with his heart instead of ignoring it just to have a good shag every weekend.

So it stops him dead seeing Harry there in the dark, cheekbones lit from the streetlight above that give him an unearthly glow. It’s winter and it’s bloody freezing out so Liam walks up and stops only for a second to say “Hi” but ends up saying, “What are you doing out here in the bloody cold, you wanker?”

To be fair, he really _had_ had a shit day.

Harry stands slowly, pulling at his black coat, and Liam can see his bare fingers shaking with the movement. Seeing Harry after all this time shouldn’t make his stomach flip like it does, shouldn’t make that Harry space in his chest twinge the way it does, but he licks his lips and stares because even in the low light, Harry is still beautiful. 

“You moved the spare key,” Harry says, and Liam laughs, shaking his head because “I didn’t move it. You never put it back.”

And Harry just feels around in his back pocket, pulls out a set of keys with _far_ too many shiny things on there, and flips them around until he finds the lone gold key with a bright blue rubber cap around the outside and smiles, turning to fit it in the lock. “Can I come in?” he says with a hesitant grin, shuffling his feet, and Liam rolls his eyes and nods at the door and walks in after Harry.

Harry flips the lights on and Liam follows. He can smell Harry’s aftershave in the air from the house being locked up all day, and it’s fresh and sweet and familiar. Harry heads into the kitchen and Liam puts his work crap on the table while Harry puts the kettle on. Liam gets mugs out as Harry slides past him to the fridge and grabs out the milk and it feels domestic—almost as if the last nearly a year hadn’t happened. As if this were normal and Harry would start making them dinner and Liam would finish up some paperwork while telling Harry about something stupid one of the younger interns had done at the office that day. But it wasn’t normal and they hadn’t been together for ten months now, and he hadn’t seen Harry or heard from him in the latter half of that time. 

Instead of banter and talk about their days there is silence, and it’s loaded but not uncomfortable. Liam has ton of questions—why Harry’s here, why now, why this night, whys and whats and hows that could fill the spaces, fill the room really, but he sits quietly once he sloshes milk into their tea and hands Harry his. They sit at the table and for a moment, a blink of his eyes, Liam recalls the last time they sat here and how easy it was for them to break what they had into nothing with the barest of words, so he says nothing at all. Instead he looks at Harry.

Harry, whose hair is slightly shorter than Liam’s used to be; the curls are there but they aren’t a halo around his face. There are bags under his eyes but they’re not too bad, just dark, and when he grins up at Liam there are more creases in the delicate skin there than Liam remembers. The bright green is still there, though, and when he looks up the dimples are deep in his cheeks, too. Liam can’t help the swoop in his gut and the warm tingly sensation over his skin that he’s always had in reaction to Harry. Harry’s beautiful on the outside but it’s the person he is underneath all the great-fitting jeans and loose tops that show off the ink he’s chosen to press into his skin that was what Liam originally fell in love with. Which is why it’s still hard to sit here and look at Harry and not feel all the things he’s always felt when he's looked at him before. 

The breakups, the fights and the yelling over stupid things fades completely into the background and he can only remember the good they had together, the friendship it all stemmed from, and he can’t help but smile in return.

“So,” Liam says, and Harry blows over the top of his cup, sipping slowly before answering with a “So” of his own.

Liam sighs, turning his cup around on the table. “Why are you here?”

“Wow, jumping right in there, are we?” Harry says, and there are these overtones of humor that Liam knows are to hide how nervous Harry is, if the extra blinks of his long lashes are anything to go by.

“Harry—” Liam starts, a heavy tone to the word because he _is_ tired, and as much as he wants to say all these things to Harry, he also wants to go to bed and sleep for a hundred years.

Harry interrupts, though. “I missed you. I miss you,” he says, and Liam chokes on whatever it was he was going to say to Harry next. 

He clears his throat instead. “I—I miss you, too.”

Harry’s smile returns and he sips at his tea and Liam does the same because he has no idea where this is going. Is Harry sick or dying or something? Is there a reason he took so long to get in touch? 

Then Liam remembers he didn’t get in touch, either, he’s been avoiding Harry nearly as much as Harry has been avoiding him, and it makes the swoopy feeling in his stomach disappear, to be replaced by something like tension instead.

“I didn’t actually want to come in,” Harry says, standing and biting at his lip, and Liam has to look up at him because now this is really making no sense.

“You didn’t?”

“No,” Harry says, shaking his head and then swooping the curls to the side in a move Liam knows just about as well as he knows the lines on his own hand. “I just . . . .” He stops and takes a breath and then hits Liam with the fullness of his stare. “I wanted to know if you were busy Friday night.”

Liam frowns a little because this night has just turned weirder than he thought it could have. “No, not really,” because the drinks Zayn always tries to drag him out to Friday nights are something he could easily get out of if he actually _had_ proper plans. “Are you performing close by, then? Louis and Nick said your show in Bristol was, and I quote, ‘absolutely whizzer.’” 

Harry grins and gets a slight pink tinge to his cheeks. “I didn’t know they’d come to that. Um, yeah, Saturday in town—but no, um, I was thinking more . . . dinner.”

“Sure,” Liam says. “It’s a bit late notice, but I could probably round everyone up. I think Niall is out with Josh’s band, but—”

“No,” Harry interrupts, cheeks pinker and verging on red as the blush creeps down his neck, “I mean, it would be lovely to see them and all but I thought, like, just us?”

“Us?” Liam squeaks—literally squeaks, because it’s not something he expected. Not that he expected anything from Harry just appearing out of nowhere, but still.

“Yeah, I mean just you and me.”

“You and me?”

“Yeah.” Harry laughs and it’s this nervous twitter and it does nothing to restart Liam’s heart into a normal beat, just adds to the strange feeling of being in an alternate universe. “Just you and me.”

“Oh,” Liam says, because it’s all he can get out, really. His pulse is all over the place and he’s not entirely sure if that’s to do with the shock of being asked out or the fact that Harry is doing the asking. “Like a date, then?”

Harry bites at his lip and murmurs an affirmation before answering, “Yes, a proper date.”

“Oh,” Liam says again as his fingers dance across the edge of the table top and Harry rubs at the back of his neck, stepping back toward the hall.

“Oh as in no, or oh as in, _oh_ kay?”

“Okay?” Liam says, and Harry does laugh properly then, almost a sound of relief, really.

“You don’t sound so sure there, Li. Like, you don’t have to if you don’t want—”

“No,” Liam blurts out, louder than he means to. “I mean yes, I do want.” He has to backtrack his words when Harry’s face falls at his original answer only to light up like a bloody beacon the moment he says yes properly.

“Great, just . . . great. I’ll, um, I’ll text you details and stuff, all right?” Harry says, backing further into the kitchen doorway, and Liam watches and stifles a giggle of his own as Harry, still not taking his eyes from Liam, backs straight into the door frame only to turn brighter red before waving Liam off and nearly bolting out the front door.

“Well, fuck,” Liam says to the lingering remains of Harry’s scent and the mug on the table still half full of tea that are physical reminders that Harry was really just here and that Harry really did just ask him out on a date. 

“A fucking ‘date’,” Liam says to the picture of Louis and himself on the fridge from some little music fest Louis dragged him to earlier in the year. “What do you think of that?” Louis’ smile doesn’t change and Liam wonders at his own state of mental awareness because he could just pick up the phone and ask Louis his thoughts, but that feels like too much. Like if he does, it’s admitting to all that he’s not let his mind build up in his head from Harry’s simple offer of a dinner date. If he rings Louis it becomes real and the fact is, Louis told Liam to sort out his life on his own basically, especially in matters of his heart and Harry, so it’s probably best if he says nothing at all. Harry could just want a chat between old friends. It could be something purely platonic, even.

But it could be something more. And if Liam is truthful with himself, he hasn’t dated anyone since whatever he was doing with Harry finished up completely. He hasn’t seen anyone for a filthy handjob in the loo or anything at a club, even. It’s just been memories of what they had and that ache in his chest that he never truly acknowledged and a feeling like it could have been more. They never discussed why they broke up that final time. Never discussed what falling back into old habits of fucking around with each other and not doing much else was, either. They never _talked_ about who they were and what they meant to each other ever, really—and maybe that was the real problem. 

Yeah, there were the “I love yous” and that wasn’t only in bed or after a particularly amazing blow job or orgasm that made one or the other nearly pass out from sheer bliss. And yeah, there were the “I love yous” that happened in the quiet, in the moments when it was just them and the air they breathed and how Harry’s eyes _looked_ when they were so close it was as if nothing else in the world existed except them and what they felt and . . . Christ, has he missed that. 

He misses Harry. 

Misses the way he smelt and how he looked when he first woke up, all sheet lines pressed into his cheek, curls flat and astray at the same time and slow, blinking eyes with shy smiles. He misses having Harry at home when work was shit, someone on _his_ side when things were fucked six ways from Sunday who would agree with him just _because_ , and at the same time disagree and point it out when Liam was being a git. He misses holding Harry’s hand when they walked down the street, misses roast dinners on Sundays with their friends, misses Friday night drinks and slow Saturday morning blow jobs and even slower afternoon sex marathons. He misses looking at Harry and wondering how he could possibly be this person who Liam was in love with. Still is in love with. Unable not to be, really.

But just because Liam wants all the things he had with Harry back, doesn’t mean that Harry will. A date could be anything. Everything. Or nothing at all.

: : :

The two days it takes to get to Friday feel like forever and too fast all at the same time. Forever because Liam really wants to find out what this “date” is about; and too slow because he can’t stop looking at the clock. It’s ridiculous, really. He hasn’t talked to Harry in months and he’s tried to put him out of his head as much as possible—and with one conversation he starts thinking about all the things he loved about Harry. All the things he loved about their relationship and who they were with each other and all the bad, the stupid, and the what seemed to never be able to be fixed properly completely falls to the wayside, leaving Liam in a mostly rose-tinted bubble when it comes to Harry. He tries to put things into perspective. Uses his tried and tested positive and negative columns when it comes to the possibility of them getting back together, but the negatives just _hurt_ and the positives make him sort of sick in the stomach because a lot of why they didn’t work was his fault, too.

Liam isn’t a big talker and he isn’t one to push for conversation, either. Especially if conversation centres around things he isn’t happy with or things he doesn’t understand when it comes to them, to how he and Harry worked. So he gets there early, this little restaurant that he and Harry would sometimes go to when they first weren’t anything much of anything really. The place is still owned by the same people, paint on the walls still the same shade of whatever they class as an off-white. Same menu—which should be worrying—but there are a few different foods on there and they’ve got a proper bar now, so it’s not BYO and Liam can get drinks brought to his table.

Which is a bad thing, really.

Because Harry is late. 

Liam knows Harry is awful with punctuality; he was late to his grandfather’s funeral and he actually _arrived_ with his mother, so that’s telling of just how bad Harry can be with time. Knowing this, Liam doesn’t order when he walks in, five minutes early himself, just gets a beer to calm his nerves and give his fingers something to move around while he waits and attempts to calm the nerves that have been on edge since Harry backed out of the kitchen and out his front door. It’s when one drink turns into two that he thinks he should maybe slow down—he does want to be coherent for whatever this is with Harry—but then the hands turn on the clock and it’s nearing thirty minutes past when Harry said to meet, so he orders a third. 

And a shot on the side.

The waiter gives him a look for _still_ not ordering food and mentions that the little bar has seats he could use and let other people eat, but Liam just shakes his head and says his “other party” will be here. Even as he says it he still has hope, if only a little. His phone is all charged and there’s no message—no Facebook tag or missed phone call or even a bloody tweet on his little-used Twitter account. Nothing to say if Harry’s going to be late, so to Liam that means he’s just running on Harry time. So Liam waits and he maybe orders another shot and a thing of roasted camembert on brioche to soothe the waiter’s twitchy right eye.

At an hour, Liam stops ordering the beers and just gets a round of shots and a bowl of chips. The waiter’s eye looks as if it will gain permanent nerve damage.

At an hour and ten, Harry walks in the door and pushes past the staff trying to help seat him and just sits down in front of Liam in a flurry of flakes of snow falling from his body as he removes his scarf and coat and finally his beanie. He shakes out his hair and his cheeks are pink, lips ruby red, and eyes greener than Liam thinks he’s ever seen them before.

But that could be the vodka talking.

“Sorry, I’m so fucking sorry I’m late.” He’s pulling off his gloves as he says this and Liam can’t stop staring at his fingers. Were they always that long? Then it’s his face again because Harry is raking those fingers through his curls ,and had they always been _that_ curly? Liam blinks and tries to focus but he hasn’t had this much to drink in such a short time in a very long while. He’s avoided parties of late, avoided places that held memories of what he had with Harry whether they were properly together or just screwing around, and it’s hitting him like a ton of bricks just _how much_ he’s consumed. No wonder the waiter was giving him the evil eye.

“I just—I wanted to do this properly, and—” Harry takes this deep breath and smiles and his dimples are just perfect and Liam wants to lick them, but no. No. Not appropriate. “Hi, I’m Harry and I’m late and I’m always going to be late to things, even though I try. I do a bit of dj’ing and I hate the colour green, even though everyone says it brings out the colour in my eye—-”

“What are you—” Liam tries to interrupt, because he _knows_ these things about Harry and this isn’t their first date, but Harry just carries on.

“I like chocolate and vanilla—I don’t think it’s fair to choose, or make anyone choose, for that matter. I’ve been known to think physical affection is enough to let people know how I feel, and I tend to internalise all my thoughts and I’m trying to fix that, too. Starting with you,”

Liam stops playing with his fork, stops pressing his fingertip to the individual tines and takes one last look at Harry’s earnest, honest face and stares back down at the tablecloth, zoning in on a damp spot where he spilt his beer earlier.

“I never spoke when we broke up that last time. I never said I didn’t want to leave, didn’t want to not have you in my life. I just packed my shit and went to Ed’s because I thought it would make you happy and I thought it was what you wanted. I’d always waited for you to be sick of me, really. Always thought that one day you’d realise I was this idiot who thought playing music in divey bars was good enough for a job and a life and you’d move on and be with someone who had real career prospects and could help out more with the bills and could dress a bit better when you had those staff dinners and stuff.”

Liam _does_ interrupt this time. “I never wanted that.”

Harry shrugs and Liam feels all the alcohol he’s consumed swirl in his gut. He isn’t sure what to make of what’s going on but, he can’t have Harry thinking like that. Like he wasn’t what Liam wanted. What Liam chose. What Liam would choose still.

“Well, it’s what I felt. And you know we never did this properly, never had that proper first date where you get to know each other and stuff. We just fell into bed and then fell into us, and I don’t—I can’t let that be the way we finish, you know? I just—I want us and I want you and I want to try, if you—” He finally pauses and Liam gets a little sidetracked by the bobbing of Harry’s adam’s apple as he swallows. “If you want to try. I’d like that.”

And Liam just blinks and stares and Harry has every single one of his nervous tics in play—the biting of his lip, the tapping of his left hand on his thigh, the shaking of his right foot every off beat, and then there’s the shaking out of his hair only to put it back in the same place it was. He looks so young, so much younger than the years they have between them, and he looks so worried about Liam’s answer; and even being halfway or more into drunk territory, there’s only one real answer that Liam wants to give. Needs to give.

“Slow?” he says, and it’s like his heart’s turned up a notch in his chest, thumping so hard he’s sure Harry can see it through his button-down, and maybe it’s okay if he does because Harry smiles a little at that one word.

“Really slow, like maybe we should have a ban on sex or something, considering,” Harry says, and his cheeks pink even more and it’s delicious. Liam remembers how that heat feels on his tongue and presses the fork into his fingertip a little harder. 

“Right, no sex. Just dates,” Liam says, and Harry smiles and it’s a little less guarded this time, a little more normal and a little more of what Liam fell in love with all those months and years before.

“Dating, like proper with dinner and really bad movies and me trying to cop a feel while we’re sat sitting in the back row.” 

“What makes you think I’m the girl in this situation? You’ve always had the hair, Haz.” 

“But you’ve got the nice eyes.”

Liam laughs but it’s probably more a giggle; he’s always giggly when drunk. “Are we really arguing about who the girl would be in this relationship?” 

Harry’s foot kicks at Liam’s ankle and Liam traps it with his other foot. “Are we really playing footsie on a first date?” 

“Well, if we aren’t going to have sex . . .” Liam says, leading off, and Harry laughs his loud, barking near-snort and covers his mouth in a way that Liam never realised he’d missed. Harry’s stupid laugh when things aren’t _that_ funny to most but are utterly ridiculous to his Harry.

And it’s the mental thought of “his” and “Harry” together again that stops Liam’s heart, stops his everything as he breathes and thinks about what this really does mean for them both.

“We have to talk more, Harry. We have to not just discuss what we like but what we don’t like, too. And you have to learn to trust me more and I have to trust you. We have to be idiots about this relationship thing together, not just one at a time,” Liam says eventually, once he can stare at Harry’s big eyes and not feel like his entire world comes down to the next few things he says to Harry. Harry, who’s never loved proper conversations like this, has always hoped that Liam would understand what he needed and wanted from pure look and hesitant touch alone. It had taken Liam months to figure out that Harry hanging around and dragging him out so much once things went south with Louis meant, “We have to be in this together.”

Harry nods and his fingertips slide slowly, almost cautiously, over Liam’s knuckles where he is still gripping the fork and Liam doesn’t hesitate to flip his hand over, letting Harry’s skin rest against his. “Together,” Harry says, his tone thick and deep, and Liam just wants to say “fuck you” to the rule about no sex because Harry touching him just a little makes Liam want more and he _knows_ what the more feels like with Harry and he misses it. Misses it a lot. But he’s still sort of drunk and Harry’s still trying to be better at making them work, so he can’t. They can’t.

“Proper,” Harry says, and he’s biting at his lip, soothing it with his tongue, and it’s _obscene_ and Liam wants to lean over and do it for Harry but he won't. He won’t.

He won’t, because he wants them to work. He won’t, because they’ve done the sex thing and they’re good at it and they’ve tried the relationship thing and they were okay at it and he wants them to have both. Wants what they had but _better_ , and Harry wants it, too, and maybe if they both want it hard enough, try for it hard enough, maybe it’ll work.

“So,” Liam says, “tell me more about yourself.”

And Harry does.

\- fin -


End file.
